


Rub Down

by Hoodoo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Massage, Oil, Orgasm, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-01 03:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13286463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: You're overdue for a massage, and instead of your regular therapist, an old man is assigned. His techniques aren't traditional, but he does know how to relax you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "What do you think about a massage therapist Rick? If it's not your thing, that's totally fine."
> 
> Oh, it's _totally_ fine!

You’re overdue for a massage. Your entire body aches, you feel stiff and knotted up. You imagine you’re stooped over and looking arthritic.

Arriving at your regular massage parlor, you greet the receptionist who rings back to the therapist. You head to the quieter, secondary waiting area and have a seat.

An old, tall, skinny man walks into the waiting area. 

“You’re-you’re the seven o’clock? Come on.”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you.

“Me? Uh, yeah . . .” you say, reluctantly standing up. “Where’s Danielle?”

He shrugs, disinterested. “She’s not here. Come on.”

You weren’t informed you weren’t getting a session with your regular masseuse. You’re not sure you’re comfortable with a masseur . . . but your creaky, achy body needs it. You follow him.

He leads you to a private room, tells you to take off your clothes— _all_ your clothes, specifically, even though you know the policy here is that you as the client decide how much nudity you’re comfortable with—tells you to lay on the table face up, then exits to give you a moment to get out of all your clothing. 

_All your clothing_ echoes in your head. 

You pull off everything and pile it in a chair. Typically you leave your panties on, but whatever.

The table is heated and covered in a fuzzy blanket. You slip between it and the cooler top sheet and let the heat start working into your muscles. It plus the dim light already starts relaxing you.

The masseur enters again, dimming the lights even more. 

Without a word—his name, where your problem areas are, what you don’t want—he starts at your head.

His fingers are long and cool. The card through your hair, tugging it to stimulate your scalp. It’s rougher than what you’re used to with your regular masseuse, but it works: tension starts leaving you. You keep your eyes closed as he moves to your neck and shoulders.

He’s strong; his fingers support the weight of your skull to allow gravity to work the stiffness out. He slips his hands under your shoulders and repeats that technique on the knots he finds in the muscles there. At first the tips of his thumbs send pain in the tight areas, but after a few minutes, everything loosens and it’s much, much better. 

Moving to your front, he massages under your collarbone. His hands work further down on your breasts than you’ve typically had before, but that’s okay, whatever he’s doing, it’s working.

His attention goes to your limbs, with special concentration on your hands and feet.

By the time he’s done with your front, you’re mostly melted into the table. 

You’re left alone a moment as he raises the table’s face rest. In a gravelly voice, he asks you to turn over. He lifts the sheet—not quite as high as you’re used to—and you flip and settle back in. He takes a foam roll and slips it under your ankles, and tucks the sheet around you, leaving your back exposed. 

You hear him rubbing his hands together. The sound is dry, then it smooths out as he pumps lotion onto them. He runs two fingers down your spine so you don’t jump as he lays his palms on you.

It wasn’t lotion he used on his hands; it was oil. Slicker and warmer than what you’re used to, it feels like liquid heat soaking into your skin with the long, sweeping motions of his hands. He dips down to the swell of your ass, then back up, using a combination of pressure from the heels of his palm and just the hint of fingernails on the way back down. 

Again, different technique, but it sets your nerves on fire.

Finished with your back, he moves to your legs. He does not re-drape your top with the sheet. That’s fine; you’re too warm now anyway.

He pulls the top sheet off your legs, leaving only your ass mostly covered. He applies more oil to his hands, and starts on your legs with the same long motions, from hip to toe.

His hands are warm. They’re large too, wrapping easily around your ankles and even covering most of your calves and thighs. 

Speaking of which . . .

The prolonged contact has relaxed you, but turned you on as well. This masseur’s touch is sinful; the oil has made your skin smooth and you’re warmed to your core. You wiggle a bit on the table, wanting to close your legs for a hint of friction. You hope he doesn’t think you’re suddenly ticklish.

He doesn’t say a word about your movement, but does take his hands off you. You barely stifle a groan.

The foam roll is tugged out from under your ankles. Your hour is up already?

He’s back at your side.

“Lift your hips,” he tells you.

Once again, like so many other things this session, you do as he says even if it’s not typical or expected. 

You scoot up a little, using your elbows and knees to raise yourself. The sheet slides haphazardly, its bunched weight pulling most of it to the ground. He positions the foam roll under your pelvis and you ease back down.

This is an odd but surprisingly comfortable position, with your ass slightly elevated. You still want to close your thighs, but as if reading your mind he places a hand on one, slipping his fingers between them, keeping them parted. 

“This sheet is in the way,” he says. “Okay to remove it?”

It’s the first question for your permission he’s asked. 

“Yes,” you agree, hoping it’s not too muffled with your face still in the rest.

The sheet is pulled away from you.

Fully exposed, with his hand still between your legs, you feel a rush of heat flood you.

Gently, he works his oiled fingers over your gluts. The muscles there are large and he uses force to get the tension out. It works, and although you’re still aroused, you relax more. Despite your arousal, your legs drift further apart.

In this position, as relaxed as you are, you can feel the air on your pussy.

Once his attention to your ass is complete, his fingers ghost your inner thighs.

Your first reaction is to snap your legs shut. It’s a vulnerable position to be in, but that warmth in your gut hasn’t dissipated. Instead of going with your initial, startled response, you moan a little.

There’s a sound from him, a kind of pleased rumble.

He takes his hand off you and you almost moan in a disappointed way, this time, but he only takes another handful of oil before running his fingers between your upper thighs again.

Slowly, smoothly, he moves his fingers on the delicate skin there. You can’t help but strain upward just a teensy bit more when his hand moves closer to the junction at your groin.

Then his fingertips slip up against your pussy.

You’re already wet, primed by your earlier arousal. His fingers, coated in oil, glide easily on your smooth, shaved lips. One, his middle finger from the feel of it, dips further in, making you gasp a little.

His hand is warm from the work he’s done, but still cooler than where he’s stroking, making for an incredible contrast in temperature. He pauses for a moment—to give you a chance to be outraged, or kick him, or something, you imagine—and when you don’t do any of those things he takes it as approval and caresses you with a little more deliberation. 

He slips his hand further underneath you and finds your clit. The immediate, intense pleasure that spiked through you made you jerk and cry out. 

His free hand found your ass and gave it a moderate slap. You understood he meant you to be quiet.

You turn your head to the side, towards him, and made an effort to quell your sounds.

When he sees that you’re trying, he ran his hand over the slightly painful mark he’d made. His other hand continues, creating tiny circles on your clit. You lift your hips up a little, and bite your lips to keep from making too much noise.

He draws his hand away from your clit, sliding his long fingers back and forth along your pussy in a parody of the lengthy strokes he’d done down your legs. You tremble and continue to strain towards him, towards those pleasure-inducing miracle workers. He pauses once again, and you worry that you’ve seemed too eager, too desperate—

No. He’d only paused to determine exactly where he needed to be, and two fingers slip up your cunt.

Try as you might, you gasp.

You get another slap, harder than the last one.

In response, you bite at the blanket below you, gathering enough in your mouth to muffle yourself. 

That seems to satisfy him, and he begins a steady pace of finger-fucking you. You push against him, wanting more: wanting faster, wanting deeper, wanting harder. He intuits your desires, bringing you more quickly to the edge of climax than people you’d been in relationships with had done with months of practice.

But just as you’re almost there, shamelessly rutting against him, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes in the effort to keep quiet, he stops.

His fingers leave you. You’re left empty and needy and a thin, sad moan worms out around the blanket between your teeth.

You twist a little to look at him. He squeezes your ass, and through blurry vision you see a smirk lift one side of his mouth.

Then, without warning, he repositions his hand and shoves three digits inside you. The remaining two bump up and apply heavy pressure to your clit.

How?—Which?—before you can even begin to work the logistics of what he’s done the white heat of bliss overrides any higher brain function. That orgasm you were so close to comes crashing back, lighting up your nerve endings, your pussy spasming tightly around his fingers. The free hand he used to slap and squeeze your ass pushes your face into the blanket and table to help deaden the howl you make. 

You don’t know how much time passes; he keeps his fingers in your pussy and weight on your clit until you the waves of ecstasy crest to this side of painful.

When he lets you come down, it’s easy and slow, removing his hand from your in increments. A blessing, that. 

The blanket under your face is damp with drool and tears. It’ll be the same under your groin; you were always a wet lay. 

He bends and finds the sheet again, paying no heed to the dazed state you’re in. He drapes you and once you’re covered, puts a hand on your hip, ignores the fact that your automatic reaction to his hand is to push into it, and asks you to lift your pelvis again.

You obey. As you do, he tugs the foam roll out from under you.

He tells you your time is up, and he’ll be waiting for you out in the hallway. Then he leaves.

Once the door is shut behind him, you take your time getting off the table. Sometimes a massage makes you unsteady on your feet, but you know for a fact your weak knees have nothing to do with the relaxed state of your muscles. 

You put on your clothes and make your way into the hall too. You’re sure you look a mess, but can’t even find the energy to care. You’re completely relaxed, and nothing hurts. 

The masseur is waiting like he said, leaning against the wall. He offers you a cup of water. 

“Better?” he asks. “You-you had a lot of tension stored up. I hope I worked out some of those kinks.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to tell him you may have discovered a new kink, but from the smirk on his face, you’re pretty sure he already knows it. 

“Here’s my card,” he says, handing it over. 

It reads, ‘Rick Sanchez, professional masseur. Deep tissue treatments a specialty.’

You smile back and hand him several folded bills as a tip. “Thank you.”

He nods. “Reception can schedule any future appointments you may need, or-or want. But I-I’m booked out pretty far.”

“I’ll stop on my way out.”

He nods again, gives you a grin that isn’t a smirk, and heads off back down the hallway.

You make sure you put his card in a safe place in your purse. Danielle just lost a client.

_fin._


	2. Massage

“–-mmphf, mmm, oh, oh–-”

Although you twisted your head for both air and because you couldn’t help writhing, Rick’s strong fingers tightened on the the back of your skull and forced you back into the position you knew you had to stay in. You couldn’t help it though; his other fingers were driving themselves deep into your cunt at a blistering pace. 

That, and he beckoned inside you, stroking your g-spot, and occasionally he even went so far as to slightly spread them, stretching the walls of your cunt, and it was so good, so fucking good–-

“-–oh god, oh god–-” you whined, trying so hard to keep your voice down. “Oh Rick–-”

There was a sharp intake of breath above you and he released his grip on your head. Maybe he was going to spank you? He’d done that before, while finger fucking you–-

Instead, he let go and yanked his fingers out of you at the same time.

With your ass propped in the air, it took your brain a moment to catch up to the fact that he’d stopped. A coolish breeze tickling your inner thighs–-you were soaked-–and the abrupt lack of stimulation clued you in, no matter how close you were to coming. 

“Oh, Rick, Rick, what-what’s going on?” you whimpered. You sounded pathetic and desperate, and you didn’t care. You wanted him to continue. You ached, you needed to come–-

“You’re too fucking loud.” 

His harsh response jerked you back to reality.

You hang your head as best you can, laying face down. “I’m sorry, Rick!” you apologize. “I didn’t mean to be–-it just felt so good, you’re so good, please, I’ll be better, I can be quiet, I know I need to be quiet! I remember! _Please!_ Please just a little more–-”

“Your hour’s up. Get dressed.”

With that, he left the room, not bothering to drape you again.

For a long moment you can’t believe he just left you hanging. You didn’t mean to be so loud! You weren’t trying to feed his ego when you told him how good he was! It was the truth! No one brought you to orgasm as skillfully or as quickly as he did! You apologized. You weren’t that loud, anyway!

Were you?

You give him another second to return. 

He doesn’t.

With a groan, you push yourself up. As always, you’ve left a wet spot; Rick always makes you sodden with pleasure. You use a dry spot on the sheet to wipe your pussy. He’ll have clean up to do anyway, so what’s a little more? You collect your clothes and pull them on. Peevishly, while you do, you run the next conversation and scenario through your head. 

You won’t tip him.

You won’t make another appointment.

You’ll complain to the management. 

You’ll leave a bad Yelp review!

That’ll show him.

But when you open the door and he’s standing there, leaning against the opposite wall with a cup of water in his hand, all your resolve flies out of your mind. 

He offers the cup to you.

“Maybe next time we’ll work those kinks out,” he said innocuously, but you know the double meaning. 

“Yes-–”

He didn’t interrupt you with words; he simply turned and walked away, leaving you in a dim and hushed hallway with soft, stupid New Age music drifting from unseen speakers, with an unfulfilled ache in your pussy.

“Rick, wait!” you whispered loudly after him. 

He paused, and barely turned his head to acknowledge you. 

Quickly, you slipped your hand into your purse as you hurried up to him. You pushed a wad of bills into his hand. No matter what internal dialogue you’d had, there was no way you weren’t giving him his tip.

He looked down on you coolly, he told you, “You can make you next appointment at the desk.”

“I’ll see you in two weeks!” you said.

He grunted in response, and left you. Both you and he knew that next time, you’d be quiet.


	3. Snap Crackle Pop

_Snap!_

Involuntarily, you sucked your breath in. It wasn’t a gasp! you told yourself. It wasn’t loud enough to be a gasp, it was just surprise and a feeling of relief.

He grunted his disapproval that you’d tensed up in fear of him cutting your session short again because you made too loud a sound, but apparently Rick agreed that your noise wasn’t going to draw attention, because his palms continued to push on either side of your spine, moving gently downward. No other vertebrae made the same noise as he manipulated your back.

Once he’d reworked the tension in your shoulders out again, he didn’t re-drape you-–another good sign he wasn’t exasperated about the gasp you’d made; he was as temperamental as a damn cat–-and started on your legs. 

_Crackle!_

The tiny sounds your ankles made when he rotated them didn’t make you gasp. When he cradled your foot and dragged both thumbs up the sole of your foot, however, you had to choke back a laugh. 

Rick paused.

You mumbled an apology into the table.

He dropped your foot and continued to pause, and you thought he was going to quit. You held your breath until his fingers wrapped themselves around your calf, and he began massaging the muscle there. He made his way up passed your knees to your thighs. You felt like melting into the heated table.

When he removed the rolled support from under your ankles and told you to lift your hips, you complied immediately. 

He worked your gluts. He gently spread your legs and stroked your inner thighs. 

You willed yourself to stay loose and receptive, even as your held your breath.

_Pop!_

You bit your lips closed but couldn’t contain the deep moan in your throat as Rick’s fingers slipped into your cunt. The noise was low enough to satisfy him that you appreciated it but not big enough that other people outside his room may hear. 

That was good, because those moans continued as his talented fingers alternated teasing your clit and fucking you until you came. As always, you made his hand and the sheet below you wet. As always, he never commented on it. 

He left the room before you’d come down from your blissful high. You had to take a second to catch your breath before collecting your clothing and pulling it back on. Holding the doorframe to steady yourself, you carefully walked out of the room and found him leaning against the wall across the hall, holding the obligatory paper cup full of water. 

The scent of your own pussy wafted to you as he handed it over. 

“Next available appointment’s in three weeks,” he told you dispassionately. 

You nodded; you knew exactly when you’d see him again. 

Rick gave you a slight nod and pushed himself off the wall to leave. 

“Wait! Here!” you said in an urgent but hushed tone. 

He paused, and you pressed his tip into his palm. With your hand in his, you grew bold and, before you could really think about what you were doing, you stepped up into his personal space and planted a kiss on his cheek.

He startled, and although he opened his mouth to say something, you were off, walking briskly down to the door to the reception area of the massage parlor, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

_fin!_


End file.
